by Alix West
“When you didn’t show up I went by your suite,” Clay said. “I started to knock but I heard you talking on the phone. Mostly I wanted to know you were okay.”
Great. Not only had she stood him up, but he’d caught her in a lie too. “Listen, I’m sorry. I really am. It’s complicated.”
“There’s nothing complicated about it.”
Yes, it is, but she didn’t feel like listing off her personal problems. He worked as a fishing guide, taking business men on fly-fishing trips for her mother’s hotel. That meant he was her mother’s employee.
Not only that, but she’d heard three different stories about him taking it upon himself to act like the hotel bouncer, physically apprehending guests who behaved badly. No one had been hurt, but each time he’d frightened the guests so badly they’d packed their bags and left immediately.
He was ex-military and towered a head taller than her. He had a presence that said, ‘Don’t mess with me.’ He was good-looking in a rough sort of way. Incredibly fit. He held himself in a manner that suggested he gave zero interest about what others thought of him.
One of the staff at the hotel mentioned Clay’s nickname, something that had troubled her, but she’d since forgotten. A big, threatening-looking guy was exactly the type of man she tried to avoid, even though his blue eyes made her catch her breath every time.
“Anyway, I’m sorry. I really am,” she said suddenly feeling exhausted.
Clay fixed his gaze on the lake and the dog who’d finally reached the stick. The dog grabbed it and turned in a wide arc back to the shore.
“Do you have to throw it so far?” She folded her arms. “Seems a little mean.”
Clay’s lips lifted into a smile. The skin around his eyes creased, making her wonder how old he was. If she’d gone last night, she could have asked, but now it would seem awkward. Like she was interested. And she wasn’t. At all. That’s what she told herself.
If she had to guess his age, she’d say early thirties. Maybe thirty-three or four. When he smiled at her the first time, two weeks ago, when she’d arrived at the hunting lodge, she couldn’t stop looking at the curve of his lips and the way a single dimple formed to the right of his mouth. He’d stood by the fire that day, talking to a hotel guest, but he’d kept his attention riveted on her the moment she stepped into the room.
His stubble fascinated her too. Normally she didn’t like the rough unshaven look. Not that she liked the carefully groomed short beards of the boys her mother pushed at her.
“Charlie’s just a puppy.” Clay’s tone softened. “He’s got energy to burn, and he’s better behaved when he’s a little worn out.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and the breeze lifted a hint of his scent. She’d noticed the masculine scent yesterday when he found her in the lodge’s ballroom. Standing on the top of the ladder, wrestling the new drapes, she didn’t notice him until he reached the bottom and wrapped a strong hand around the rung. Perched six feet above him, with his hand steadying her ladder, he’d invited her to eat supper with him in his cabin. His words seemed more statement than question.
The breeze made her shiver. “I’m leaving,” she said.
He said nothing, either because he already knew or didn’t care. He kept his gaze on the dog, giving her a chance to admire his profile. The wind ruffled his dark blond hair.
“I’m going to Napa Valley,” she offered. Why she was telling him this, she couldn’t say.
He let out a small huff, probably disparaging the wine country. Napa was everything he wasn’t. Cultured. Fussy. Pretentious. Maybe not the entire county, but certainly the area she was headed. Her mother had just closed on a winery along with a chalet that would be another feather for her cap.
The chalet is just the darlingest thing you’ve ever seen.
The chalet was nothing more than a glorified bed and breakfast, but there’d be no telling her mother that. And there’d be no way to get out of going and carrying out all the redecorating her mother had in store.
“Next time you’re up this way, we’ll have dinner.” He turned to face her. “No matter what.”
A soft, sensuous gleam lit his eyes. When he’d asked her out yesterday, holding the ladder under her, she’d found it impossible to turn him down, and not just because he held her safety, literally in the palm of his hand, but because he had a magnetism she’d never before encountered. Raw. Animalistic. Primitive. If she found bland, dull CPAs unnerving, she couldn’t imagine being alone with a man like Clay Bergstrom.
“Is that a fact, Mr. Bergstrom?” A shimmer of arousal heated her blood. So wrong. So, so wrong.
She searched her mind for Clay’s nickname from the military. For some reason it fit, perfectly, but she couldn’t recall what it was.
“It’s a promise, Miss Singleton.” He gave a knowing smile, like it was just a matter of time before he plucked what he wanted from her grasp.
Resentment tightened her jaw. Half the women in the lodge wanted to get in line to get acquainted with Clay Bergstrom. As a regular guide to hotel patrons and an expert on the wildlife in the area, he had an open invitation to the Lodge for dinner each night.
The management loved when he came and rubbed elbows with the guests and the guests loved it too. Whether he wore slacks and a dress shirt, or jeans and soft flannel for fishing, he’d cause a small uprising of horny women just by stepping in the room.
He’d been in the Air Force or something like that. It didn’t matter. She was leaving and never coming back so he could make whatever comment about dinner he liked.
“The thing is, I don’t really date. And definitely not big guys,” she said, suddenly not caring how stupid she sounded. “It’s my policy. Nobody over five foot ten.”
Clay had to be at least six four. Men that big always managed to make her nervous. The panicky feeling would come from nowhere. Clay worried her, but he also made her feel a prickle of awareness no other man ever had. It was a potent, dangerous mix, one her instincts told her to avoid.
He flashed a grin. “Policies are made to be changed.”
“I have to go pack.” To her surprise, she wanted to linger. Maybe she was no better than the rest of the tittering women staying at the lodge, wanting to bask in his presence a little longer even if it meant getting sprayed by Charlie.
The dog emerged from the water and trotted up the beach. His head hung a little lower, and his step had a little less bounce.
Charlie dropped the stick at Clay’s feet.
“Don’t throw it so far this time.”
Clay picked up the stick and offered it to her. “Why don’t you show me how interior decorators play fetch.”
A silvery thread of dog drool clung to the wet wood. Did he think she was too prissy to throw a slimy stick for a dog? She wrapped her fingers around the end and flung the stick into the lake where it fell short, barely making it into the shallows.
Clay snorted. Charlie trotted back to the water.
“How did you know I’m an interior decorator?”
“Why did you think I wanted you to come to my cabin?”
She blinked. Last night as she paced the floor, she’d imagined a number of carnal things that might transpire in his cabin, none of which she dared to say to his face. “I don’t know.”
“I wanted a little free advice on my décor.”
He was dissing her and she deserved it for standing him up. His eyes held a gleam that was part teasing and part pay-back.
“Your décor?” She tried to imagine his mancave. Her mother talked about the way men might spend a great deal of money on the exterior of their homes, the roof, the stone work and landscaping. They might also buy top of the line appliances, but the rest of the house? Not so much. Not bachelors. Men were bears with furniture.
He frowned. “What did you think I had in mind?”
She tried to suppress her smile. “What do you like to cook? Nachos? PBJ’s?”
“Come back and I’ll cook you anything
you want.”
“Thank you. If I come back, I’ll take you up on it.”
A rumble inside his chest suggested he’d hold her to that. She said a quick good-bye and hurried back to the lodge.
And then she remembered his nickname. Beast. She’d never see him again, and that was just as well. A big, powerful man like him, a beast who settled conflicts with his fists… that could only be one thing – trouble.
Chapter Two
Clay
Bacon sizzled in the pan and the cabin filled with the savory aroma of breakfast.
“Easy come, easy go, huh Charlie?”
The dog’s tail thumped against the wall as he wagged it, lying next to the kitchen table, anticipating his breakfast. Clay scooped a cup into the bag of dog food and poured it into the bowl. Charlie gazed at Clay, eyes wide, ears at attention, waiting for his master’s command. Even though he was young he had been a fast learner.
“Good boy.”
Charlie got to his feet and moved quickly to the bowl, driving his snout into the food like it was a steak cooked medium rare and not just dry kibble.
“You’d a liked to run with her if I hadn’t been throwing the stick.”
Clay took a dozen eggs from the fridge and cracked four into the skillet, his thoughts drifting back to Victoria and the ways she’d looked that morning on her run. Even without makeup she took his breath.
He imagined where she’d be soon, crossing the small regional airport, pulling her suitcase behind her. She’d need help with her luggage. He’d seen her when she arrived, the bellboy pushing the cart piled high with suitcases, a stupid fucking smile on his face while he watched her ass.
Her ass, admittedly, was pretty damn fine, but that didn’t give the bellboy the right to check it out. Or any other man.
He looked out the window to the slate roof of the Lodge in the distance. She was in one of the fifty rooms. He tried to picture her in her suite, getting dressed for a day of travel. Some tight little skirt. A pair of sexy-as-fuck heels. Her hair swept up with just a few tendrils escaping to cling to her neck.
Victoria Singleton. He had it bad for her. From the first moment he’d seen her, she consumed his thoughts. There were a dozen women at the Lodge who would jump at the chance to have dinner with him and that little girl blew him off like he was nothing more than a piece of lint on her cashmere sweater.
She’d been at the lodge for two weeks. He tried to ignore her, tried to forget that he’d ever seen her, but every woman he met seemed like nothing to him. His mind painted Victoria’s face on every single one. It was like no other woman existed.
He never imagined a woman would be able to do that to him. He’d seen the same thing happen to buddies, men who’d chased every skirt in a ten-mile radius. Not just chase, but score, often. They’d been perfectly happy and even proud of their playboy ways, until the day they saw The One.
And Victoria was his. He was sure of it. It didn’t bother him that she’d stood him up, other than he wanted to be with her, now. He didn’t mind the chase if Victoria was the prize. If anything, he liked the challenge. What did bother him was the fear he saw in her eyes when she looked at him. What was that all about? How could he convince her that he was a good guy?
She was only twenty-one, twelve years younger than him. Just a baby. He should give her space, if he were a gentleman, but he was no fucking gentleman, not when it came to this girl. Nothing was going to keep him from her.
He’d watched her every night at the Lodge when the guests came to the dining room. She would arrive for dinner, in a dress and heels. The sight of her always made him break into a cold sweat. He’d watch her every move.
Her chestnut hair hung like a sheet past her shoulders, the tips brushing the small of her back. Her lips always pouted when she saw him. He imagined coiling that swath of hair, slowly and deliberately around his fist, to tilt her head back so he could kiss those pouty lips until she gave in to him, under his control and happy to be there.
She was leaving today and figured she wouldn’t see him anytime soon, but he’d planned a way to spend more time with the shy beauty. Since the tourist season was winding down here at Lake Sitka, he’d planned a little trip down to Napa. He might be there when Victoria was, and he might even stay a few days at the winery her mother just bought, and there was even a chance he might bump into Victoria.
It was a brilliant strategy. Slightly stalkerish, he knew, but brilliant. Hopefully Victoria would award him some credit for coming up with the plan, and see his resolve and audacity that he was shelling out six hundred dollars a night to stay there. He’d booked a week’s stay at the stuffy winery and the venture was going to cost him over four grand. That’s what it took to chase a girl like Victoria Singleton.
He had no business with a girl as fine as Victoria. If he was rugged denim, she was delicate silk. And if she sipped white wine or French champagne, he drank beer, a beverage they probably didn’t even serve in Napa. Or if they did it came from some micro-brewery and had a cat on the label. Or pumpkins.
No, they didn’t have much in common, but he didn’t care. She might not want to see him but he had the perfect bait. He had tickets to see Madame Butterfly at a concert hall in a nearby town the second night he was in Napa.
“Madame Butterfly,” he muttered to Charlie. “What would the guys say to that?”
Without lifting his head from his meal, Charlie wagged his tail.
“I’m on a mission to sweep her off her feet.”
It was very much like a mission. When he overheard her talking to a guest about Madame Butterfly, he’d researched the opera (which sounded pretty damn sad) and then when he discovered it would be performed in Napa Valley, he’d seen it as fate. The four-hundred dollar tickets were nothing as far as he was concerned. If she cried at the end, he’d be ready to comfort her.
He slid his breakfast from the pan onto a plate and was just ready to eat when the phone rang. He groaned to see it was his sister, Lauren. He grabbed the phone and riffled through a pile on the counter, looking for an envelope she’d sent him.
“Hey,” he said. “I got the picture if that’s why you’re calling.”
“I had the studio overnight it,” she said breathlessly. “So you wouldn’t have to wait.”
“Right.” He peeled back the tab and pulled out the eight by ten of his six-month-old nephew, setting it aside. He next pulled out a picture frame and tried to hold the phone while he slid the back off.
“Looks good. The boy’s as cute as…” his words trailed off as he tried to describe his nephew adequately. Lauren was a bullshit bloodhound and if he laid it on too thick she’d give him hell, but if his praise wasn’t glowing enough, he’d catch it two-fold. Fortunately, she started with a description of the photo session, saving him the trouble of complementing Little Joe, who, if you asked him, still looked like the last picture she’d sent.
A baby was a baby.
He shoved the photo in the frame, but the back was on wrong, preventing him from standing it up. Instead, he leaned it against the wall, propping it up with a fishing magazine so it would stay upright.
A price tag stuck to the glass. The small square hid half of Joe’s face. Clay scratched the tag with his thumbnail, loosened it and peeled it off, leaving a sticky smear on the glass. He rubbed the glue and managed to smear it more.
“…so the photographer started getting huffy with me, because Joey kept drifting off to sleep…”
“Huh. That’s bad.”
“She sure changed her tune when I mentioned Yelp. She told me she’d be happy to reschedule and would waive the sitting fee.”
Clay eyed his breakfast. The eggs would be stone cold by the time he managed to get off the phone. He loved his two sisters, but when they started talking about their children, the conversations were completely one-sided. And endless.
The phone beeped with another call from his other sister.
“Vanessa’s calling. Can I talk to you later?”
“She’s probably calling about Dad. He woke up sick to his stomach and she took him to the doctor.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his head to ease the sudden twinge. “Why would I care about that?”
Lauren and Vanessa liked to act as if their father mattered to him. He didn’t care for his step-father and tried his best not to think about the man. Ever.
“He’s been asking about you lately.”
The phone beeped again.
“Let me get this. Call you later.”
He clicked over to the other line, hoping that Paul’s name wouldn’t come up in the conversation with Vanessa.
“Thank God you’re home,” Vanessa said.
Clay closed his eyes. Not the greeting he’d hoped for. “What’s up?”
“I’m at the emergency room with Dad.”
He straightened and gripped the phone. He could picture his sister, pale and shaking. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s Dad. They think he’s… oh Clay.”
He gritted his teeth. While he didn’t care for Paul, he loved his two younger sisters. Vanessa was five years younger than him, Lauren six. He remembered the day each of them was born. The way they’d looked wrapped in their little pink blankets. The curious way their hair smelled when they rested in their cradle.
Both of them were so tiny. Now, years later, the tiny bundles had grown to be strong, confident women, both hell-on-wheels. If Vanessa was getting choked up, it had to be bad. He waited, listening as her breathing evened out.
“They say he might have a blockage. And that he might have had a heart attack.”
A heart attack. Surprising to think Paul even had a heart. Clay bit back the sharp words. It wasn’t too hard to imagine that Paul’s health had declined. He drank. Not just beer, but the hard stuff. Smoked. Sat in his chair, never opening his curtains, watching ESPN in the dark.
Good fucking riddance…
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He’s asking for you.”
“Lauren mentioned that. I just got off the phone with her.”
“I need to call her, she doesn’t know any of this. I wanted to call you first.”